


The last time

by Likorys



Series: Geraskier week 2020 [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Idiots in Love, Jaskier does not like it, M/M, also a bit of feral Jaskier, and he's gonna force Geralt to get better, and much hair pulling, and somehow it ended up as borderline sub/dom, be careful, because of course it did, geralt tries to push Jaskier away because he's an Idiot but also In Love but also Bad At Feeling, much play with control and consent and if that's not your thing, so a blowjob, which means they have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:31:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22773364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: The mountain quest goes tits up and Jaskier is becoming more and more tired of Geralt trying to push him away whenever problems arise. He understands that his witcher has issues, but it might stop being enough to stay.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg - Relationship
Series: Geraskier week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636678
Comments: 4
Kudos: 137





	The last time

Jaskier remembers the huge, fawn-like eyes of the hirrika, the gurgling growls like a lion cub trying to roar and the way skin hung off its chest in dirty flaps. He remembers its whines, just like a puppy drowning in a lake, and that its purple-hued blood stank like curdled milk when Sir Eyck cut it into pieces, remembers swallowing down bile as he forced himself not to look away for even a moment.

He also remembers the shadow of heartbreak on Geralt’s face as he says “If we fed it, it would’ve gone away.” and it set his own blood boiling.

“Nonsense!” he jumps up to the knight, false smile plastered on his face as he claps him on a shoulder and ignores Yennefer completely. “_Magnificent_ sword work, my good Sir! Would I allow me the honors of butchering the fallen beast as they ready the fires?” he asks innocently, hands waving toward cooling corpse.

“I would say it’s butchered enough already.” Yennefer looks at him shortly, with a mix of disgust and incredulity, but he doesn’t care. Geralt’s is the only opinion he cares about and he will _get_ what’s he’s doing. The witch can think about him whatever she wants.

Jaskier mouths _You’d know all about butchering_ before turning around to answer Sir Eyck’s silent ‘why’ that’s plain on his face.

“No knight of your renown would let a silly beast best him and surely, wouldn't dare waste a kill?” Jaskier smiles wider, and it’s too many teeth, but Sir Eyck only puffs out and stabs his sword into the ground. The he calls his men to build a fire and make camp and the others stay as well, because Geralt wouldn’t leave Jaskier, and only an idiot would separate themselves from a sorceress and a witcher.

Jaskier leaves his lute and doublet with Geralt, who’s sat on a fallen tree and still reeks of misery. He shares the sentiment and would much more prefer to stab a knight over butchering a poor hirrika, but that would be too quick and the thing is dead already, so he can at least grant it revenge. Even the karma, so to speak, as nobody would listen_ to Geralt_ as they just saw, but nobody would think twice about letting _a bard_ manipulate them with sweet praises and grand gestures.

He still kneels between Geralt’s legs, fingers brushing warm leather and exchanges a look with him, to make sure it is fine. Witcher only shrugs and turns his foot, so Jaskier gives him a smile and pats his knee before reaching to take a small knife from his boot.

He goes to sit by the corpse, whispers silent thanks and apology, then gets to work, making sure to make a nuisance of himself by loudly composing a song to praise the great sir Eyck and his mage who surely saved them all from a carnage. He sees others look at him like he’s brain-dead and feels Yennefer’s gaze burn into his back, but he doesn’t care.

Hirrika’s have few bones, that’s how they curl up so well to hide in sparse bushes on rocky terrains and why one swipe of a sword cut it down. They have soft skin that easily splits under Jaskier’s knife and he cuts gently around the glands by the shoulder-joints, full of oil that works great on distracting drowners, because hirrikas mate with a scent not unlike a decaying corpse. He rips out long claws that are dead-useful for stabbing a leather armor when one tries to mend it. He breaks the skull and cuts out a small, spongy piece of the brain that when dried and grounded, makes a good base for bone-glue that Geralt’s running low on it.

Then he splits the chest open and prepares it for roasting, because one thing he was truthful about was not wasting a kill. He cuts through the cartilage to separate the hips and then makes sure to cut out the fatty liver, hopefully full of poisons filtered from the Coral Berries that hirrika would surely eat for their sweetness, just like Geralt does despite it making his tongue numb and leaving Jaskier to make sure he doesn’t choke on it when the toxin-induced grogginess sends him to sleep.

He rubs his hands clean with sand and presents the _spoils_ to Sir Eyck. He compliments the fat liver that would sate hunger best and it’s only _deserving_ that the knight would take claim of it. He shows how to sear it off to keep all the juices inside and sings his song a few more times, until Yennefer threatens to magic his lips shut.

Geralt’s sitting by a tree, far from others and alone and absolutely brooding, since he probably blames himself. After two decades Jaskier reads him like an open book and won’t stand for this tripe.

“Here, you dolt.” He grabs the witcher by his chin and brings his head up, pushing a shiny red berry against his lips. “Eat it or I’ll surely die of guilt, for going into the bushes and luring the poor thing out.” He says softly, smile still in place.

Geralt rolls his eyes, but opens his lips. Be bites into the berry, licking at Jaskier’s fingers and sucking the juice and what’s probably the aftertaste of blood still lingering and Jaskier swallows a groan. He sits between Geralt’s legs, resting his head on his thigh as he feeds him the rest of the berries. He only got a few, so predictably Geralt whines with displeasure when he runs out, his eyes already half-lidded, gold iris blown with toxins and the whites darkened to grey as his mutations fight it off. Jaskier only smiles indulgently, because they can’t afford Geralt becoming incapacitated, and then wipes his fingers off on witcher’s pants, getting a scandalized look.

“I can forget just how vicious you are.” Geralt says, still licking at his lips and teeth, as Jaskier’s putting away body parts, carelessly rearranging stuff in witcher's bag with a tinkling of potion bottles.

Jaskier shrugs.

“Why, a _knight of such renown_ with _sorceress so grand_ surely knows that hirrika’s liver is poisonous.” He says lightly, the same cheap template-phrases from his improvised song, and turns to look to the fire. “Or not.” He shrugs as he sees Sir Eyck flee with a hand on his stomach, and his smile is all teeth and glee as he turns back to Geralt. “Who can blame a _poor, silly bard_ for a little mistake?”

Geralt huffs a laugh at it and goes back to whatever he was watching the terrain for before. Probably trying to find out why dragon’s still here.

Jaskier makes sure to put the spongy brain tissue into a glass bottle, so it won’t leak anywhere.

The liver was sticky enough it should be deadly. Poor hirrika must’ve run from the dragon and people into barren lands. Coral berries need another month to ripe, but they must’ve been early bloom and lured the creature here...

_Fuck_, he does feel guilt, settling heavily in his stomach. Damn him and the way he cannot stand to see something pretty and leave it alone. He’d never be stubborn enough to worm his way into Geralt’s heart without it, but it can cause trouble. He still remembers the griffin cub and the siren and that werewolf pup and- well, no matter.

He never understood how Geralt can still stand people, let alone sacrifice so much for them. If Jaskier was to become a witcher, he’d probably give up after a month and turn assassin just to hunt monster who freely admit to their vileness. At least then no death would be innocent.

He sits on the ground by Geralt’s side and rests his head on his leg again, smiling when strong fingers brush his hair away and stroke it lazily.

“If only they saw you like that.” Jaskier chuckles lightly. He knows they’re doing it precisely because Geralt is sure nobody’s eyes are on them.

Jaskier shouldn’t feel to _viciously glad_ he chose this over chasing Yennefer this time, but he’s just a simple man in love with a witcher eternally tied to a sorceress, so he’ll get all the victories he can scrounge up.

“Hmm...”

“Who knows, they might assume the lovely mage is messing with them and stone her.” Jaskier jokes, moment later hissing when his hair is pulled. He leans his head back to alleviate the strain. “Just a joke, love, I promise...” he mumbles, looking into those bright golden eyes and licks his lips.

They’re still blown wide, gold rings thin around the black pupils and he’s so used to seeing them in such a statue in very different circumstances...

“You’re insatiable.” Geralt’s nose twitches as he laughs, a low rumble in his chest, and lets him go.

Jaskier sputter and jabs a finger at his chest.

“Me? _Insatiable_? Should I remind you who left us to sleep in the _stables_ because he lost track of days _in a brothel_?” he snipes, free hand on his hip.

It’s probably _weird_. He still gladly takes his fun with those willing, Geralt still spends an occasional weekend at a whorehouse and clings to the tie he has with Yennefer. It probably looks silly from outside. But then it took almost a decade for Jaskier to finally drag Geralt to bed and sleep with him. They were a couple long before they fucked, and it just never became as important part of it as one might imagine.

By now Jaskier spent more of his life _with_ Geralt than _without_ him. He knows him. That’s why he lets him lay off witcher-libido-powered steam when silly witcher thinks he’d hurt him, absolutely not jealous of the way women have the slight natural advantage here. He doesn’t bitch about Yennefer too much, just takes his smale victories and bickers with her when he can. In return, Geralt doesn’t mind his dalliances as long as he keeps them more discreet, and Jaskier _might’ve_ fucked a princes and both of her parents after that request, but then he apologized to Geralt with his words and his mouth both for ages and now keeps to locking the door and not over-sharing as much as he used to.

They both make it work and that’s enough.

Of course, something goes wrong and Borch and his lovely Tea and Vea fall.

Of course, Geralt goes to sleep with Yennefer, because poor darling is still so easily scared of Jaskier’s mortality that he’s been looking for a djinn for seven-years running. He’s yet to find one, but at least it gave Jaskier time to carefully plan wishes that have the best chance not to fuck him over too dramatically. Immortality unless killed which he counts as a damage that would kill a witcher, preservation of his youth until death and freeing the djinn. He consulted Triss and few other mages they met and every archived story in Oxenfurt’s library, and this seems to be his safest bet.

If only he could find the damn thing, but at least last few rumors actually spoke of a real djinn, even if he arrived too late. It’s a bit tricky, hunting it without Geralt realizing when they never are apart, but he doesn’t want him to go into insomnia over it again or endanger himself to find him a djinn. No, Jaskier’s gonna find a djinn _on his own_, damn it. He plans to make it a gift for all of Geralt’s birthdays he won’t celebrate and he got attached to the idea so he _will_ find the blasted thing even if it kills him! Figuratively, of course, because otherwise, it would make the whole thing pretty futile.

At least his witcher put up the tent so Jaskier has a place to sleep, even if it’s dreadfully cold and lonely without a warm, muscly chest to cling and more. But when he manages to nap, he wakes to a chill going down his spine and sun high on the sky.

He runs, at the sight of the dwarves froze in place even faster. Tea and Vea and then Borch appearing alive are a nice silver lining to the whole mess he finds, but it doesn’t help much.

He keeps away from the Talk, feeling the chill settle into his bones like a premonition as he sees whatever Geralt had with Yennefer crash and burn and leave naught but dead earth, not even ashes to fertilize it.

He makes a mistake, probably goes to him too soon, because it goes back to Child surprise and djinn and-

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take **you **off my hands!”

But see, the thing is, Geralt’s an _awful_ liar.

Jaskier knows when he’s lying, because he usually does it with shouting and being loud and cruel. When he’s honest and true, he’ll be calm and calculated. Jaskier had the pleasure to meet king Foltest while he performed at one court and he’s still in awe at Geralt ever getting out alive from the whole striga business. He hopes the songs he made about the poor Adda and the princess helped a little, because he couldn't rest without writing them after he managed to bully Geralt into explaining _why the fuck _is there a knot of scar tissue this close to this neck and to killing him.

Geralt’s not loud, only when he’s scared. So Jaskier sees the temper tantrum for what it is, because _it’s not the first one_.

He still has to bite his tongue and swallow down venom, because understanding something doesn’t lessen the blow. Just because he knows he needs stitches doesn’t magic away the pain of the needle. Knowing that Geralt is just lashing out and being a dick doesn’t mean his words don’t flay Jaskier alive.

He gets it, that’s what hurts the most. Being hated just because he’s a witcher, that’s probably something Geralt is used to. Being hated personally, for a choice he made? And for trying to save a woman bent on her self-destruction no less? It must dig up painful memories and torment more than any stoning ever could.

Jaskier gets it. He could easily stand a booing crowd, but one stupid joke about a pie with no feeling sent him into a craze that almost ended with his death.

Being hated on principle is bad, but someone hating you personally is much, much worse.

That’s why he stubbornly sits down and takes out his lute, not giving a single fuck about Geralt growling at him. Witcher said what he probably thinks is a deadly blow, like snake’s venomous bite, and now waits for it to take effect.

To fuck with that. Jaskier’s tired of picking up a mess because Yennefer’s to busy being a bitch and he won't risk going down the bloody mountain alone so Geralt can cool off.

Some emotional talk might even do them some good and Geralt’s so rarely emotional he might as well take advantage.

He doesn’t think he can be hurt any worse, so what’s the risk?

“_I have no heart, just ice and stone, made up of nails and teeth and bone._” He sings, mocking, and smiles when Geralt flinches. He’s not subtle, but that’s what works best on someone as thick-headed as him. “_I know exactly what I'm for, to hurt and destroy and nothing more._”

“Shut up!” Geralt’s turned to him, eyes still burning with fury and his fists shaking.

Jaskier takes care to keep his eyes on the pretty broach at the hilt of witcher’s sword.

“_And if it's true that I was made, I still don't know if I can change... something has stirred, a beast has awakened. Opened a door and there's no mistaking, it’s waging a war, it's fighting inside of me._” He stands up, slowly walking closer to Geralt who’s now pointedly not looking at him.

Just as well, Jaskier’s not sure he wouldn’t falter if he could see his eyes.

“_I never thought that I could love, strangers at night were good enough._” He makes a pointed pause, here, holding his lute to the side. “_But love's not a thing you get to choose, try to resist, you'll always lose._”

He waits for a breath, then raises the lute to bring it crashing down on Geralt’s head, because he’s not one to break his fingers on his stupidly sharp chin _again_. The witcher at least has the decency to stumble a little with a grunt, but the wood seems much worse for wear and it’s so unfair Jaskier wishes he had something harder, to hit him again. Maybe an anvil would have some effect. Or a whale.

“_This_ is for even _trying _to push me away like an utter coward.” He hisses, dropping broken lute to the ground with a twang. “I’m not gonna let two decades of us go to _waste_ because some bitch broke up your fuck-buddy arrangement!” he jabs his finger at Geralt’s chest, then covers his mouth with a hand as soon as he tries to speak. “Now we are going back to Roach, _in silence_, because if I don’t shut up I will tell you to fuck off and you’d listen and I’m getting really tired of you trying to fuck us over because of your own self-hatred!” he gives him a glare for the effect, the turns around.

He’s- not sure what he expected. Usually he just backed off and let Geralt remember that _no, he doesn’t want Jaskier to go away_, then they have sex in a way Jaskier demands and it solves it. Or maybe he was _putting salve on a tumor_, because he just dealt with it and never tried to fix it.

He almost falls down when fingers grab as his clothes. He stays in place, not turning around, because he said his piece and there were words made of venom still clawing at his throat.

“Please.” Geralt’s voice is soft and sounds broken and it almost makes Jaskier relent, but he can’t because he knows _himself_ and if they don’t deal with it now, he’ll never get the balls to do it again.

It was only Cintra and half a year apart till he tracked Geralt, with that scar on his neck, that made Jaskier man up and get him to bed. It took Yennefer to make him find a good method to deal with Geralt’s outbursts that doesn't include trailing a sulking witcher (but does included bed), because now he had someone else to turn to.

They need to deal with it now or it will grow and grow in silence until it buries them beneath it.

“Please, stay.” Geralt tries again and this time Jaskier’s too close to breaking so he spins in place, tears stinging at his eyes.

“You want to cut the silent treatment short, fine, but _you know_ what I will want.” He hisses again, and tries not to feel guilty when Geralt flinches.

It’s a game they play, that Jaskier needs.

Geralt spent too much time around physical violence he sometimes forgets verbal wound leaves scars too. So Jaskier makes him put them on his skin as a reminder, so Geralt will think before lashing out again. It seemed to work well enough, finally making more and more time pass between each argument, but maybe it was just pushing off inevitable.

Jaskier waits, because it’s a game he’d never star without Geralt agreeing. They spent a week just talking about it before he even trusted witcher to know what he’s agreeing to and it still almost ended in a disaster because Geralt wouldn’t tell him when too much was _too much_.

“Fine.” Geralt forced between clenched teeth and Jaskier’s honestly surprised. It’s usually the guilt that makes him agree and now he should still be too high-strung for it.

Well, he’s not one to refuse a good fuck. But he does look around and raise an eyebrow at Geralt, crossing his arms. He’s not _above_ doing it in the wild, but he doesn’t think witcher would like it.

Geralt definitely does not, his face pinched with disgust at the idea, but then he looks away.

“Yen probably left her tent.” He says, because _of course_.

Jaskier will never be rid of her, even if she cuts her relationship with Geralt, will he? The bond itself will probably ensure it and _fuck_ if it doesn’t make something vicious rise in him.

“Show the way.” He says curtly and lets Geralt walk him to a ratty tent.

Which, of course _a mage_ would make it pretty on the inside. Exactly unlike herself. Jaskier makes a face at the sweet smell in the air but doesn’t care enough to worry about it. He goes to the bed and stands by it.

“Your bag, witcher.” He demands, and seeing Geralt just come by and hand it over does things to him.

Dark, delicious things that make his blood boil as he fishes out a small vial. It’s an extract from some weird fruit or bark, he doesn’t care, the only thing important is the effect it has on the witcher.

He looks Geralt over one last time. He put his swords away and is stubbornly looking at the floor, but his whole body is loose almost in resignation. He knows it for the surrender it truly is and smiles briefly.

“Well. On the bed, then.” He says, voice still sharp and brisk as he takes off his clothes.

Geralt climbs onto the bed, sitting down with legs stretched out and waits. Jaskier smiles at it, feels blood shot to his groin that much faster. There is something truly lovely about such a _beast_ tamed and awaiting his command.

He climbs into Geralt’s lap, hissing when he touches some of the spikes on the armor and makes a point of sitting up higher on Geralt’s thighs, dragging his hardening cock across the chest piece.

He grabs him by the face and lets his nails bite into his cheeks, forcing him to open his mouth as he tilts his head back.

“Bottoms up.” He says with false cheer and pops the cork with his teeth before spilling the sharp-smelling extract into Geralt’s mouth. He covers it with his hand, licking his lips as he sees him struggle to swallow and then shaking as it takes effect, his fingers clutching at the sheets as his eyes lose focus, pupils blown wide and gold almost disappearing.

Jaskier thinks of the day before, sweet smell in the tent almost like the berries and his lest his fingernails drag across witcher’s skin as he pulls his hands back and then sits just inches away, spreading his knees so he will have the best view.

It’s just a game. Geralt doesn’t remember that words can scar, so Jaskier makes him leave marks on his body so he will learn. It’s never anything long-lasting, unless you count the time they did it in a shitty inn and Jaskier cut himself on a nail sticking out of the frame.

The extract only works to ensure a precise amount of hours Geralt will be wild with lust, but it does nothing to his sanity. Okay, _almost_ nothing because 5 hours of blue balls probably grate on self-control like hot steel on butter.

“Fuck.” Geralt stopped shaking, instead shifting on the bed. His flushed, his breathing quick and his eyes loom over Jaskier’s body, who only smiles and moves a hand to stroke himself lazily with a long sigh.

It’s just a game, he reminds himself, but the air smells sweet and it makes it hard to get in the right mindset.

“It stinks here.” He says in a bored tone, makes a point to look at Geralt’s crotch, the tight leather bulging. “I have half a mind to leave it, let you remember why exactly we’re doing it...” he muses, a pure lie because _he would never_, but small lies are part of this too and Geralt’s eyes look like molten gold when they gloss over.

He shakes his head and Jaskier gives a little sigh before relenting.

“Air it out and I might take some of this off.” He leans to tap a nail on a shoulder pad. There is some blood on it and as Geralt uses a sign to push the air out, the metallic scent mixes with it.

Jaskier likes to think himself as trustworthy, so he smile and strokes Geralt’s cheek with his finger, following a faint red scratch from before.

“Good witcher.” He whispers and reaches to slowly take off his armor, piece by piece. Mostly because the metal is awful on his skin and he’s already bruised from long climb and sleeping on stony ground, but also because the metaphor of stripping Geralt off his defenses is just too good to pass up.

But his witcher is tense, eyes focused to the side and Jaskier doesn’t like it. He supposed to only have eyes on him! So he grabs at his hair, pulling harsh and relishes in a pained grunt he gets in return.

“Something interesting there?” he asks, mocking, taking a brief look at a table and fruits. “If you’re hungry we can always stop.” He threatens, only to watch Geralt’s eyes gloss over again. By the end he’ll be worse than drunk and drugged at once, they _both_ will be, and Jaskier cannot wait.

But then Geralt shakes his head and opens his mouth before snapping it shut. Jaskier hums, tapping his finger against his skull. It might be _nothing_, but it might be _something huge_ and he needs to b sure.

“Tell me.” He orders, free hand trailing nails along Geralt’s spine, chasing a shiver. “You know the rules, don’t you, love?” his tone softens for a moment and he looks witcher in the eyes, imploring.

Because this is just a _game_ and he ever wants Geralt to just bare with something he doesn’t wish for.

Geralt blinks a few times, finally focuses on Jaskier and then rolls his eyes fondly. It still takes a few tries for him to speak.

“Can still smell-” he cuts off and Jaskier is glad for it.

He makes a show of sniffing the air, pulling completely away.

“I don’t smell a thing, only fresh mountain air, witcher.” He says, hand on his hip. “You sure it’s not just that you’re still longing? Wishing for what isn’t here?” he mocks and cringes, because it’s supposed to be a game and there was too much truth in his words.

He looks at Geralt, careful. It’s a choice, a first one he actually put in front of him when it comes to _them_, and the silence is heady with the implication. Jaskier would let him chase her again, go back to their old ways again, but they both know the risk of what it might bring to them.

So he waits and tries no to jump and kiss Geralt senseless when he nods. He does go to the bag and takes out two little bottles before going back onto the bed.

“I’m gonna trust your word, gods know why.” He says and then opens one of the bottles, a sharp smell of citrus coming out.

He grabs at Geralt’s hair again and pours all of it onto it, smiles at his grimace. It tickles his nose so it must be too strong for w witcher and won’t fully go away for days, but it will mute any other smell and that’s what Jaskier was trying for.

He pushes the other bottle away, for later, and doesn’t miss the fond look Geralt gives him at it. He hides a smile and comes closer again, sitting between strong thighs and puts his hands there, tapping absentmindedly.

“Now to the fun part.” He whispers and leans in for a kiss, hand in white hair pulling until Geralt groans, letting Jaskier’s tongue in. It tingles at the aftertaste of the extract, his weak human blood boiling with just that and his erection throbs against warm leather of Geralt’s pants.

He straddles his leg and rubs against him, biting at his lip at the dry friction before licking at the bruises soothingly. Nothing stays on Geralt too long, so he can indulge much more than with a human and it gets into his head just a little.

He swallows a pitiful moan and just closes his eyes, grinding slowly, letting pleasure build up a little and drown out the heartbreak and venom still swirling in his gut.

Until Geralt’s hands brush his hips and he slaps at them, harsh, before pulling away.

“Hands _down, _witcher, you know the rules.” He’s rasping, throat a little tight and tongue still sore, because _fuck_ is this extract strong and he suspects Geralt lets it coat his mouth just so Jaskier will lose control too.

There are a few rules. He takes from Geralt and uses him until he finds his first release, pain mixed with pleasure because that’s what he needs to tire himself out. They don’t really talk witch each other, although Jaskier still talks, but he never uses his name.

It might seem cruel from the outside, but Jaskier needs to burn out the venom swirling in his lungs so if, when he bites, it will hurt, but will not kill. And Geralt, for probably obvious reasons Jaskier doesn’t care for, equally hates and loves this.

As if the unfocused stare of almost completely black eyes and fingers obediently going back to clutching at the sheets wasn’t enough, as if the witcher wasn’t shaking from the effort he had to put into not moving, as if Jaskier didn’t read him like an open book for years.

“Good.” Jaskier smiles and gives his hair a hard pull, to lick and bite at witcher’s neck. So open and completely at his mercy, one bite away from death. It’s exquisite, to have so much power over someone like Geralt, to have him squirm and moan and still obey Jaskier’s rules.

It gets to him faster than usual, so all too soon he’s pulling back and Geralt sways after him with a weak whine, before catching himself and staying in place.

Jaskier strokes him chest with approving hum and slowly reaches to untie his pants on the sides, then peeling the leather back. As always, it’s nice to actually see his stupidly big cock hard and leaking, because they tested the extract and he knows how much it can do on its own. So he can be sure when Geralt does want it as much as him.

He slides back on the bed, hands moving to Geralt’s thighs.

“On my hair now, witcher.” He reminds him and then bends his head, to lick at the precum before it drips onto the sheets. Geralt’s huge, stupid wither mutations or just luck, so he takes time to lick him all over, dragging teeth on the underside and sucking at the pulsing veins. Shaking fingers stroked at his hair and he takes just the tip into his mouth to hum appreciatively.

Then he goes down and _down_, slowly fitting Geralt in his mouth as his jaw protests at the strain, until he has to hold his breath and stomp down his gag reflex. He hums again, long and low, relishing in the broken moan and a curse it gets him. He moves back up lazily, licking along and listening to every sound that spills from witcher's lips, then closes his eyes and taps Geralt on his leg.

Fingers take hold of his hair and then he’s being pulled down, groaning at the prickling at his scalp, the fast slide of Geralt’s cock back into his throat until he is dragged back and pulled in again. There is faint buzz in his ears, low and soothing and he just makes sure to breathe when he’s given a chance, his throat burning in the best ways.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on Geralt’s thigh, feeling every quiver of muscles there and he makes sure to hum and suck at all the right times, occasionally dragging teeth so fingers will clench on his hair and nails bite into his skin.

It used to take ages to make Geralt trust him about this, to believe Jaskier simply _likes_ the thrill of small pain alongside pleasure, but it’s been years since then. They both know much better by now.

Jaskier groans when he feels the tell-tale shivers going through Geralt body and taps his leg again, groaning louder when fingers relax and brush frantically through his hair, but the pressure is gone so Jaskier comes back slowly to take a deeper breath before sliding Geralt’s length back into his mouth and just keeps it there as he swallows around it, until it throbs and he’s drinking up his seed with a full-body shiver and maybe grinds against the bed for some relief, just a little.

He’s mostly drunk on Geralt’s cry of pleasure because _of course_ it’s his name and it does things to his, squeezes his hearth and melts his insides into mush, pain and venom starting to get lost and buried under it all.

But it’s not enough and they both know it, so his nails bite into a thigh as he pulls back slowly, mouth lose and spit slathering Geralt’s still deliciously hard cock, red and throbbing as Jaskier blows cold air at is, earning himself a hiss.

“Down, witcher.” He rasps, throat already stinging and he has to swallow a few times to stave off a coughing fit. There’ll be no singing for a day at least.

He used to wonder if that’s why Geralt agreed to it, but he knows better by now.

He straddles Geralt’s hips, grinding down so he can feel him, slick between his ass-cheeks and so hot. Geralt looks positively ruined, gasping with open mouth, lips still slightly bruised from the kiss and eyes half-lidded, the pale skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Jaskier moans at the mere sight of him and grinds down again, dragging fingernail across his chest to find hardener nipples and pinch.

“So lovely...” he breathes out and then raises his hips and tries to get Geralt into him. It takes a few tries like this, dry and blind, but the desperate whines are too delicious to pass up.

Then Jaskier hits home and howls, pushing down despite painful screech and the burn, down until he feels his in his throat and looses breath. He falls onto Geralt's chest, legs shaking and arms weak, moaning at the smallest move. His hands shake as he slides them ever so slowly along Geralt’s arms, to reach his wrists and put his palms on his hips. He rolls his eyes fondly when fingers stroke his sweaty skin as if he was made of glass, barely there and so delicate you wouldn’t believe them to be witcher’s hands.

He gives them both a moment, but when nothing happens for _too long_ he bites as whatever skin his mouth can reach and grinds his hips in a slow circle. Geralt shakes under him and he feels his growl before it reached his ears.

“Come now, we’re far from done here.” He whispers and licks at the teeth-marks on scarred skin. They will be gone in a day and sometimes he’s happy, because that means no rumors can be born if Geralt’s clean the next morning, but sometimes it makes something ugly twist in him and wonder about picking up a blade to make a mark that would never fade-

“Fuck!” he curses as the first movie drags along his insides, still half-dry and burning and glorious as the slow push make him feel full to bursting.

There is a small bit of satisfaction of doing it right here, but he squashes it down so he won’t make a stupid comment, ever, because he likes himself and his witcher intact and not fucked up by a deadly mage for fouling her sheets. He’ll give it a decade if the break-up holds up this time before he brings it up.

And _yes_, he focuses on this so he doesn’t come right away because after few tentative moves Geralt’s quick to pick up the pace, raising Jaskier to pull him down onto his raising hips, the sounds hey make absolutely filthy. It’s hard and fast and Jaskier won’t be walking anywhere for a day either, screams of pleasure tearing at his sore throat and it’s exactly what he needed.

All in Geralt’s control, all under Jaskier’s command. It’s dizzying and after the blowjob he can already feel his stomach tighten, so he starts working with his witcher, pushing down and rolling his hips in all the best ways, clenching down when he feels so perfectly full as if they were made for each other.

It doesn’t take long until Geralt’s chokes on a keen, spilling inside him, his hips trying to bury him as deep as he’ll go in stuttering moves. Jaskier bites his wrist and squeezes his cock, breathing harshly through a high before it simmers down, leaving him aching.

He flops onto Geralt, whining when he still feels him shift inside and semen spill on his legs.

“Mhhh... yo’s whene’r, love.” He mumbles into his chest, feeling each rise and fall of the rapid breaths, hearting the heartbeat so fast for a witcher it’s just like human’s.

As always, the rest it a haze.

Jaskier never tried to keep track, after getting his fil letting Geralt take and take and take until he’s seated. It’s easier now, with witcher’s seed easing the way and Jaskier stretched, but they must truly be made for each other because it stays delicious and perfect no matter how many rounds they go through.

At some point Jaskier claws at Geralt’s shirt until it rips and makes his joints hurt when he fits a foot between Geralt’s thighs to push the leather pants down.

Jaskier’s bites at the neck and shoulders and chest, leaver teeth-marks and dark bruises between scars to sooth them with his tongue. Geralt gives back as good as he gets, Jaskier’s neck soon throbbing to the rhythm of his pulse, skin occasionally burning with pain and wet before warm mouth laps the blood away. His fingernails drag at Geralt’s back, his hips, wherever he reaches so he can keep them off his cock, coming dry again and again between finally bringing scarred, calloused hand to finish him, using all the focus he has left on keeping track of this rhythm so his body can last.

Because it’s lovely only when they both love it and it took a few tries to learn how to make it last the longest, feel the best.

He loses his voice halfway through, left to breathy keening and needy mewling, and Geralt gets more vocal then, as he sucked the voice out of Jaskier, his chest shaking with all the growling and his moans hoarse, a true music to Jaskier’s ears.

He always tends to drift off a bit, at the finish, pliant in Geralt’s arms and just clinging to him, to touch as much of him as he can even if he barely has the strength to make his fingers hold onto his hair. He always comes back to laying on Geralt’s chest, still full of him and with gentle fingers in his hair, soft kisses on his arms.

It took a few tries, but they found this is the safest, because Jaskier’s not always all there when he comes back to himself.

He blinks away the grogginess, stretching his limbs with a hoarse groan. He’s so full of him and his seed he feels bloated as he lays on him, stomach presses against hard muscles, heavy arm laid across his back. He can already feel tender bruises on his arms and legs and hips, his back stings and his neck even more so, and _he never felt better_.

“I’ll buy you a new lute.” Geralt’s voice doesn’t sound half as destroyed as it should, but Jaskier doesn’t take it personally. He does bite at him at the reminder.

“**Never** again, do you hear me?” he says, fingernails trailing along Geralt’s pectoral muscle and slowly digging into the skin. “I will buy you _a gag_ and look for _a mage _till I find one willing to magic it so it will stop you from _ever lying_ again.” He’s hissing at the end.

It would make witcher’s work infinitely harder, but Jaskier would do it. Probably. If the argument from today happens again. Maybe.

Geralt only hums and grabs for his hand to start kissing his palm and it’s so unfair that sex, no matter how mind-blowing, only leaves one of them so complacent. Jaskier lets his lips move to his wrist, then lick his fingers one after another, but when they land in witcher’s mouth he pinches his tongue.

“No chance. I won’t walk for a weak.” He slowly pulls up to his knees and groans at the filthy, wet sound, before flopping back down, right where he was, head laid down a tad more comfortable under Geralt’s chin and their legs tangled together, strong arms a welcomed weight around him. The sheets are getting soaked and he feels miserably empty after so long, but gives exactly no fucks about it, planning to leave the damn tend for the bitch to find and-

“Stop.” Geralt’s finger strokes between his brows and Jaskier relaxes against himself, cuddling closer. “You’ve got a trademark frown when you think of her. Stop it.” He explains.

Jaskier takes full advantage of their position to knee him in the groin, very lightly, but enough to elicit a warning growl.

“She _doesn’t get _to have a personal frown on _my_ _face!”_ he grumbles, rubbing at his forehead, and after a moment adds “...but I’ll stop. Don’t have to worry about her anymore, do it?” his tone it tentative, careful, because he still remembers the harsh words.

Even if the bitterness and fury were fucked out of him, the hurt will finger for a while. Longer than finger-shaped bruises he’ll wear for weeks which is the whole point of their game, outside of pure pleasure.

Geralt seems to read his mind, because he strokes at his gip, before laying his hand still, a forming bruise covered completely in a perfect fit and Jaskier hisses _both _at the way his cock tries to twitch back to life, because being marked by Geralt _does things to him_, and at seeing a small cut on witcher’s forearm.

He sits up, swaying in a dizzy spell and grabbing as Geralt’s chest to keep in place. He rubs away the sting of pulling on his hair, the other hand and both his eyes zeroing on a wound.

“When?” he asks simply, because it wasn’t there before they started and they’re not supposed to get fucking hurt when they do it!

Geralt raises up on his elbow and then points to the side, to a dagger laying on the floor.

“She sleeps with it. Guess I forgot.” Geralt rolls his eyes, but there is flush on his cheeks and Jaskier bursts out laughing, leaning against him. And ignoring grumbling as he slowly calms down.

They’re games leave him giddy and overly emotional, but Geralt never seems to mind in those moments. It would be nice if it extended to other times, but Jaskier’s not gonna complain. Not when Geralt spent a full night here with not a scratch, but few hours with him made him cut himself.

“You sleep with a sword.” He reminds his lovely, dumb witcher and starts giggling at the second eye-roll he gets. He lets Geralt pull them back to the bed, into the half that’s somewhat drier, on their sides to they can both relax. “I’m the only sane one here. Always knew it, now I have proof.” Jaskier sigh, still smiling, and rubs his cheek at Geralt’s arm, his head leaned back in a habit as Geralt takes to sniffing at him after sex. He asked him once to describe how it smells, but poor thing got so flustered when ‘sugar’ and ‘spice’ made Jaskier add the obvious _and everything nice_ than nothing else came out of his mouth, so Jaskier let his witcher keep his mysteries.

“Really, and what do you sleep with for safety? A lute, as if that is sane? Or do you mean the key to doors you never lock?” Geralt pokes at his side and Jaskier wonders for a moment, fingers brushing through Geralt’s mussed up hair, before he smiles with pure glee and he can already hear Geralt groan as he says:

“Why, with _you_, my dear witcher.” He lets out a chuckle again, at a louder groan pulling at Geralt’s hair to bring him into a kiss. “I’m safest with you, love. My heart safe with yours and my life in your capable hands.” He whispers and there is another flush coloring Geralt’s skin so he turns his head to pepper the pink skin with kisses.

They lay in comfortable silence for a while after that, Jaskier humming every once in a while because he’s a bard, so of course he’s already trying to make a song to fix the problem that landed them here. It’s harder without a lute to strum, only tapping at Geralt’s skin wherever his hand lays at the moment.

It takes so long that Geralt finally tells him to just go with it and Jaskier’s never been one to disappoint audience's demands. He pushed himself up so he can lay upon Geralt again.

It’s a very obvious ploy to prevent his escape, which he knows was a right move when witcher tenses at the first words:

“Oh, when a difficult day goes by, keeping it together is hard but that's why... You've got to try, and I'll tell you why,” he hums for a moment again, reaching to hold Geralt’s hand and bring it closer, kissing the palm of his hand. “When there's a thundering storm outside, behind all your walls you can huddle and hide... But try as you might, there's no warmth to find.” He looks at him then, and Geralt might’ve never said the apology, but he burned it into Jaskier’s skin with bruises and now it burns in his eyes, glittering and glossy, but in all the worst ways. “Stuck in the middle of fear and shame, I know it's easy, finding others to blame. To ease your pain and hide it away. But now, now you've got things to lose, every time like this you will need to choose. To cut me loose – or speak the truth.” His voice breaks a little and he has to clear his throat.

He lets Geralt pull him closer, hides face in his neck and breath for a moment. Pretends his skin isn’t getting wet by the moment and the broad chest under him is not shaking.

“But know, if ever you need to cry, let you armor down, know I always got time. Hide in my arms, stay safe and warm.” He holds him through it, stroking his hair and closing his eyes, trying to think only of how much he loved and adores him and how much he wants to comfort him, hoping it shows in his smell. “And when there's a murmur inside your heart.” He taps lightly at his palm, clutching at his hand and feeling their pulses mingle, one witchery for two human. “Lying it's fated to all fall apart. Let it pass by and tell me so I...” his voice trails off again and his throat is burning, but it’s important, so Jaskier turns his head, kissing along Geralt’s jaw and cheek to reach his ear, because this is only for him. “Can help you, fell more sure of my love. Hold you close, within walls of our love. Guided there, by the trails of your love.” He hums again, holding Geralt close and keeping to the melody of the last words.

He hopes Yennefer has enough dignity to keep away from them for a while. He doubts she has a working heart, but he hopes he’s wrong if it will give his poor witcher time to recover and grieve in peace.

He hums until he lulls himself to sleep with it. He wakes up clean, in one of Geralt’s tunics and under a blanket. The bed lost the sheets, and the tent lost the fruit on the table. He can’t quite hide the smile as he slowly sits up, grimacing at the unfortunate, but familiar wet feeling inside.

Geralt had a misfortune of saving him from a lord who was just a bit deaf to his refusal of a fun time and he needed something to heal his ass. Turns out witchers have salves for everything under the sun. He hates having to use it after they make love, because it’s supposed to be good, and not hurt any of them.

He sighs, but before he can try and stand up Geralt’s coming back. Jaskier’s glad they’re long past the time he worried witcher has left him whenever he wakes up alone. Come to think of it, it took them longer to hook up than to stop separating for any length of tiem, which probably says something about them both.

“The fuck, Geralt?” Jaskier’s rubs at his eyes, but no, Geralt is still standing before him, a hoard of daggers, knives and small swords in his arms. He lets him fall onto the end of the bed with a muted clang and sits right next to Jaskier, their legs touching.

“Pick one.” He says as if it’s totally a thing to bring weapons taken from dead bodies, because Jaskier’s not so stupid not to recognize the weapons from the Reavers. “The road’s gonna be even worse alone, you’ll need a weapon.” He adds and Jaskier doesn’t even look at the blades. How exactly is he supposed to focus on that when Geralt gave his only clean shirt to him and sits there only in his leather pants, the absolute bastard?

And no, he’s not trying to _not think_ about Geralt’s words and fall into panic, because he might love his witcher to death, but he’s as good with words as a real wolf with a needle. Usually, he asks for clarification, but with yesterdays words fresh in his mind Jaskier can’t find his voice and-

“Pick already so I can start planning what to teach you.” Geralt gives his hand a squeeze and Jaskier gasps for breath he didn’t know he was holding. He sags against him and rubs head at his shoulder until he feels fingers in his hair and sighs with content, half-way asleep at the warmth that filled him at Geralt’s words.

Until the utter bastard and son of a rat _pulls_ to make him wake up and chose one of the blades.

He picks out a few that look silver.

“The corpse will probably show which ones are pure enough.” He muses, old ager passing and he rubs at Geralt’s spine to make him relax, because clearly they thought about the same thing. “Still a shitty apology, I’ll have you know.” He adds, picking trough other blades with a bored expression. “I’m a bard, a man of art and comforts, not barbarian's trophy!” he snarks, then gasps in outrage at Geralt’s chuckle.

He’s not fat of blades, but he remembers enough from his childhood to recognize the better ones. He finds one that feeling level in his hand, plain and with a scabbard that you can sew into something.

“I’d need to buy wider boots, I don’t want to risk losing it with a coat or a belt.” He explains, ignoring Geralt’s muttered _As if you wore any,_ because of course he doesn’t, why should he when he has a witcher right by his side, always hot like a furnace and ready to share a fur, or a bedroll, or a bed? It would be just a waste of money.

“I’ll buy them too.” Geralt shakes his head.

“Brave words for someone who just let a dragon quest get tits up.” He says slowly, a chill running down his back because Geralt’s not looking at him.

He waist a good while longer than he expected, his finger tapping nervously on the blade.

“Borch agreed to let me take few things.” Geralt says finally, quiet. “Dragon is already dead. Might as well not waste a death.” His lips quirk a little, but it’s still more a grimace than a smile.

“Of course.” Jaskier puts the knife away and gets onto Geralt’s lap, to hug him close. “Come here and let me thank you, love.” He pulls him back to the bed, kicking the rest of the blades away.

If they stay like that for the rest of the day and the tunic gets wet and Jaskier’s sings himself until he loses his voice for a day, nobody was there to know.

**Author's Note:**

> I. Might write more to it, but for now it's completed.


End file.
